


Who Did so Tousle Your Dark Hair?

by Kasasagi



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drama & Romance, M/M, Male Slash, Not Epilogue Compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-01
Updated: 2018-03-01
Packaged: 2019-03-25 15:16:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13837467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kasasagi/pseuds/Kasasagi
Summary: Severus Snape makes experimental potions and tries to avoid problems with the Ethics Committee. Harry Potter, as always, makes it difficult for him.





	Who Did so Tousle Your Dark Hair?

Contrary to popular belief, Harry Potter was not particularly bad at potions; he had, after all, received an Exceeds Expectations in his Potions O.W.Ls. He may not have the innovatory talent of Severus Snape or phenomenal memory of Hermione Granger-Weasley, but he could make all basic medical potions by himself, even though he usually relied on the services of professionals in this regard, as he had enough money and preferred to occupy his time with other matters. But should necessity arise, he was capable to make them himself.

Therefore he now paused when, while cursorily inspecting the ingredients supposedly used for a headache potion – or at least that was what Severus had told him – he found an unknown plant with thick leaves, ready to be processed. It looked a little bit like aloe vera, but smelled slightly of honey. The other ingredients were consistent with headache potion composition as Harry knew it; the plant was the only anomaly. Severus could be working on an innovation.

But this seemed odd to Harry – the current composition of the headache potion was, thanks to the immediate relief it brought and almost nonexistent side effects, appreciated worldwide and Severus got it patented. Harry put one little green leaf into his pocket, frowning in thought. A sharp pain pierced his temples and Harry turned away from the workbench to the shelf holding finished potions.

…

Harry was woken by a feeling of warmth on his eyelids. He opened his eyes and sleepily blinked into the sunlight. For a moment, he couldn’t remember where he was. He gazed at his bedside table, wardrobe and desk, all made of light beech wood. He didn’t recall buying anything like this for the Grimmauld Place house. A dull ache pulsed through his temples, an echo of yesterday’s piercing pain. He rose, went to the window and took in the pale pink cherry blossoms, glistening with morning dew. The pressure slowly subsided. _Of course_ , he thought. During his convalescence after a recent accident he had met during an Auror raid, which was aimed at a bunch of remaining Death Eaters, he was staying with Severus. His magic had gone rather wild since the accident, so he took a sick leave from his Head Auror job until he regained control over it. The mediwitches and mediwizards had also decided that he shouldn’t stay by himself, so he moved in with Severus.

They didn’t really plan to move in together so early in their relationship, but Harry rather welcomed it; he couldn’t imagine broaching the subject with Severus. Communication wasn’t exactly their forte. As fas as Harry could remember, when they squeezed into the broom closet together after that Ministry ball, hardly any words were exchanged.

Harry smiled at the memory. Feeling rather good humored, he sat down at his desk and opened his notes. _Oh, the Whomping Willow. Well that was something…_

…

The warm rays of the afternoon sun made fascinating patterns in Harry’s cup of chamomile tea. Well, at least in comparison with Neville Longbottom’s lengthy complains on how his students not only could not tell an umbel from a capitulum, but – what was the world coming to! –didn’t even know the difference between a stem and a stalk. Harry nodded in appropriate places and emitted the occasional supportive grunt, but could feel himself drifting to sleep all the same.  

Neville finally paused to take a sip from his tea. His gaze wandered out of the window.

“What a splendid tree!” he exclaimed in admiration. “I can almost smell its blossoms all the way here.”

“Should I open the window?” Harry offered.

“No, that will not be necessary,” Neville blurted almost in terror. “You needn’t bother for me-“

But Harry was already at the window, pushing its shutters wide open.

The sunlight that had before entered the room only with a certain degree of reluctance now flooded it like a lake of gold. It was accompanied by a cool flow of fresh air, bringing about an intoxicating fragrance of cherry blossoms.

“Phenomenal,” Neville breathed out, stunned.

 _That’s what I call professional deformation_ , Harry thought. To be able to gush over a common cherry tree was a gift possessed only by poets and botanists or herbologists. 

“I almost forgot,” he said aloud. “Could you please take a look at this leaf?” he asked and handed Neville his find from Severus’ workbench.

“This is callisia fragrans,“ Neville replied without a trace of hesitation. “Commonly known as the basket plant. It’s a rather widespread Muggle plant, especially in South American rain forests. It is used for treating a number of diseases and it also has a rejuvenating effect. Mixing it together with certain magical ingredients can increase this effect significantly. Why are you asking?”

“No particular reason. Since I’m stuck here all the time, I’m trying to educate myself a little, you know,” lied Harry.

“That’s wonderful, Harry. When I stop by next time, I’ll be sure to bring you _From Aconite to Zenobia – Magical Plants from A to Z._ You’ll find there everything you need to know about plants and more,” Neville promised enthusiastically.  

 _Probably much more than I ever want to know_ , thought Harry, but aloud he politely thanked Neville for his offer.

“Excuse me, Harry, it’s getting late and I have to visit my parents,” Neville said his traditional goodbyes soon afterwards and grabbed his fur-lined coat, a little too warm for the season in Harry’s opinion.

When the door clicked shut behind him, Harry finished his tea and let his gaze linger on the leaf in his hand.

…

It was getting late and the soft glow of red-gold flames dancing in the fireplace smoothed the sharp edges of things and lent the otherwise severe workroom a cozy appearance.

Harry had a habit to sink into an old comfortable armchair between the fireplace and the bookcase, either with something to read or with notes for his book of memories of his school years, while Severus worked on potions almost every evening, either directly making them at his workbench, or thinking through his idea at his desk or blackboard.

Tonight, it was the latter. Some time had passed since Harry stopped straining his memory with regard to what the Chamber of Secrets exactly looked like – it was really annoying how he couldn’t even use an ordinary pensive now – and, with one hand propped against chin, he was now watching how Severus filled the blackboard with his neat angular handwriting. Although his writing was legible, he used so many abbreviations and references that the result was completely incomprehensible to Harry, even though Severus had previously explained what he was working on – an experimental vaccine against dragon pox, the bane of many wizarding folk, including Harry’s paternal grandparents.     

“If you have nothing to do, I can give you some work,” Severus said, well aware of Harry’s eyes on him even though he had been facing the other way from Harry the whole time.

“I’m happy you think so high of my potion skills, but I don’t know if a potion prepared by me would sit well with the IPC,” Harry grinned.

When Severus returned to the UK, it wasn’t to Hogwarts. Given that he only worked as a teacher out of obligation to Dumbledore and he was well aware he didn’t possess the patience to tolerate the dunderheadness of others required by this profession, he decided to give up his teaching career. He might have been more suited for the Headmaster’s position, but not better than Minerva McGonagall, the current Headmistress.

Now he could finally head in the direction where his talents truly lied – potion research. He had been already granted this chance once, in Voldemort’s service. But he had soon come to understand how many hidden traps lay that way. He was now trying to make up for all the poisons he was forced to make at the Dark Lord’s orders by creating and improving healing potions for the Institute for Potion Control at St. Mungo’s, IPC for short.

“Naturally I meant processing non-magical ingredients. Like preserving toad legs,” Severus retorted drily.

“Why not. It’s not like I have any inspiration at the moment,” Harry said with a shrug and went to the workbench designated for ingredient processing. Everything had been laid out already, so he started right away. Something that would most definitely vex him during his Hogwarts years was now turning into a pleasant distraction. While he was more or less enjoying reliving his school memories, he didn’t want to live in the past. Moreover, despite the fact that the slimy jelly used to preserve toad legs grossed Harry out, even though he thankfully couldn’t feel it through his protective gloves, it was at least a somewhat physical activity, which he missed almost as much as magic.

When he was filling the next before last jar, he accidentally knocked the last empty one with his elbow. To his dismay, the jar rolled off the bench and hit the ground, breaking into several pieces.

“ _Reparo_ ,” he automatically cast a wandless spell. And all the jars he had previously taken such care to fill exploded and showered the surrounding area with toad legs and slime.

“Fuck it,” Harry mumbled tiredly and started to look for something with which to clean up the mess.

He was stopped by a light touch on his sleeve. Not even the sort of trance that overtook Severus when he was coming up with a new potion couldn’t cause him to ignore an explosion of a half of dozens glass jars.

“This is not a detention,” Severus said mildly.

During the time they were together, especially here in Severus’ St. Mungo’s apartment, Harry had ample opportunity to become used to how kindly Severus treated him compared to his school years, but sometimes, especially when he was as exhausted as now, he tended to revert into a delinquent schoolboy and expected Snape to treat him as the sadistic teacher he had first gotten to know him as. 

“After you leave, Morty will take care of it easily,” Severus said matter-of-factly.

 _Unlike me,_ Harry thought bitterly. He wondered if it was this useless that Sirius felt when he was stuck at Grimmauld Place.

“I’m sorry about all the toad legs,” he muttered unhappily. 

Severus dismissed his apology with an indifferent wave of his hand. 

“It’s not out of my own pockets and the IPC has more than enough money. You wouldn’t believe how many of my- how many former Death Eaters use it for money laundering.”

Harry smiled a little at this.

“And now off to bed with you. I should’ve noticed you were falling asleep on that bench,” said Snape in a self-reproaching manner.

With his hand still lightly placed over Harry’s arm he directed the younger man into his room, where he let him change. Severus came back a little later with a healing potion that Harry had to take every day before sleep.

When Severus handed him the potion, which despite its unappealing muddy green color had a rather pleasantly sweet taste, the sleeves of his well-worn gray cotton shirt were rolled up to his elbows. Harry noticed the wiry muscles rippling on his bare forearms. Severus’ arms hidden under his shirt sleeves also seemed to have acquired some more volume. Harry confirmed his impression when he traced one cotton-clad biceps with his fingers. Severus shivered slightly under his touch and averted his gaze.

It would be a lie to say that Harry didn’t like this change, but something seemed off. Potion preparation was in a way a manual labor, and Severus often used ingredients that required the application of not a small amount of force, for example when grinding hard materials in a mortar. He had, however, never possessed such muscles before; such volume could, in Harry’s opinion, only be acquired by intentional bodybuilding. _What made him start all of the sudden?_ Harry mused idly, but he was actually much more interested in being pinned down to the bed by those powerful arms. Imagining that made his pants feel suddenly tight.

“Don’t you want to sleep here tonight? I miss you,” whispered Harry and pulled Severus closer so he could burrow his nose into his shirt and breathe in the intoxicating combination of musk and clove. He felt Severus’ heartbeat hasten under his hand.

 “You know we can’t,” Severus’ deep voice coming from such a short distance sent pleasant jolts into his whole body. “When you sleep, your uncontrolled magic leaks into your surroundings. If there was something magical very close to you – like, for example, another wizard –” Harry kept his face buried in Snape’s shirt, but he could just see the pointed look the other man was giving him at that moment, “then well – remember what happened to Morty?”

Harry winced a little at the memory, but didn’t give up just yet.

“Come on, just for a little while… you can leave anytime,” he pleaded.

Severus pulled back, took one of Harry’s hands between his and pressed a gentle kiss on the back.

“I’d like to stay very much, but we should wait until you’ve completely recovered. Everything will be different then. Good night, Harry.”

Harry watched Severus’ muscular, but sadly retreating back, feeling frustrated. While it was sort of sweet that Severus acted like such a gentleman with him, Harry really wasn’t this fragile.

…

Harry opened the door into a spacious bathroom. Candle flames brightening the dark blue dusk of a spring evening were flickering in the water in a big tub with brass lion claw feet, the dominant of the room. The bath had been prepared by Morty, their house elf. Harry who still couldn’t perform even the simplest spells would have liked to thank him, but since the incident not so long ago that Severus had mentioned earlier, when Harry’s bout of wild magic almost buried the elf under a massive bookcase, he had taken to avoiding Harry. Harry couldn’t blame him for that. He tried to remember when this happened. A week ago? Two weeks? A month? No, he couldn’t have been here for so long.

His temples started to throb so Harry stopped to strain his memory and lowered himself into the hot water. He gave a sigh of pleasure. His muscles had been used to a much more active use than that involved in lying down or sitting at the desk, and they got rather stiff during the last few days. He tried to exercise or at least do some proper stretching, but when he overexerted himself even a little, the vexing headache returned. 

He stretched himself in the vast tub, put his hands under his head and leaned against the side of the tub. He closed his eyes and breathed in the pleasant smell of lavender, lime blossom and lilac. He tried to relax and empty his mind, but he didn’t succeed. His thoughts kept running to Severus.  

Their relationship went from mutual hatred during Harry’s school years through Harry’s admiration mixed with remorse at the time when the wizarding world – including Harry – thought Snape dead, to a relief that Snape was alive after all fighting with animosity on Harry’s part for Snape letting the wizarding world – once again including Harry – assume he was dead that for five long years. Had Harry known the truth, he definitely wouldn’t have lavished that much money on extravagant bouquets for Snape’s death anniversaries. He was glad that Snape didn’t see him on the evening of the fourth anniversary, when Harry got drunk in some shady Muggle pub and then had an embarrassingly maudlin moment over Snape’s grave – and later directly _on_ it, after his legs stopped supporting him, complaining on how life fucked with them both.  

Because Harry might’ve defeated Voldemort, but his Head Auror job still got him into situations when he didn’t feel his twenty-five, but hundred years old. They kept stumbling upon previously undiscovered Dark Lord supporters, but many of them held such power in the magical community that it was completely impossible to prove anything against them. Especially concerning Wizengamot members, who would have to vote in favor of their own condemnation. Their society was in a great need of some reforming. Harry, however, might once have been its savior, but knew little about political intrigue, no matter how much Hermione, who was trying to insinuate herself into the Wizengamot, tried to educate him in this respect. And he was tired, so very tired.

As he lay in darkness interrupted only by weak candle lights, shining mostly red through the cemetery lamps, on the rain-soaked ground of Snape’s grave – May of that year was, unlike this almost unnaturally beautiful one, quite rainy –, complaining about his career and then his love life, because his relationship with Ginny was then coming to an inevitable end, he was struck with a sudden thought that everything would have been different had Snape survived. 

He rolled on his back, smothering a bunch of rain-beaten pansies. His eyes wandered up to the dark branches of a majestic spruce, which provided Snape’s grave with a cool shade in sunny weather. 

He took a deep breath of the air that smelled like rain, wet soil and lilac.

Snape would have told Harry what to do. He’d give him an advice probably hidden under a layer of biting sarcasm, yet actually more valuable than the well-meaning, but often empty words of encouragement Harry would get from his friends. 

 _Look at me._ Harry suddenly heard an echo of Snape’s last words, like many times before in his nightmares. Snape had looked at him as if Harry had been the only thing that mattered to him. In his mind’s eye, Harry clearly saw Snape’s pale face and felt his fingers desperately gripping his wrist. But something was different. Snape in his fantasy no longer lay on the ground, but suddenly loomed over Harry and pierced him with his smoldering black gaze.

Harry was swept by a wave of hot arousal. The fantasy Snape reached with his other hand for Harry and pulled him into a tight embrace. Even through his clothes, Harry could feel the heat emanating from Snape’s body, which felt much more real than the coldness of the wet ground he was lying on.

While Snape in his fantasy moved to undress him, Harry unzipped his real soaked jeans and started to please himself furiously.

Snape’s grip on his cock was unyielding and gentle at the same time, and the way he was satisfying Harry with precise, economical movements reminded Harry of the way Snape would prepare some exceedingly complex potion.

When Harry’s cum spilled over his fingers, almost hot compared to the ice-cold rain that had long numbed his skin, not even the unexpected – and unwelcome – memory of his uncle Vernon calling wizards perverted freaks of nature couldn’t diminish the incredible pleasure that overcame him. 

…

After his bath, which almost lulled him to sleep, Harry emptied the drain and was just throwing hair into the trash can, when he noticed a strange box with some woman on the label in the trash. His curiosity got the better of him and he fished it out. It was a Muggle hair dye. Black. He stared at the blinding smile of a woman with an unnaturally glossy hair in puzzlement, trying to understand what this was doing in their bathroom. And then it hit him. Already at breakfast he had noticed that Severus’ hair looked glossier than usual – not unlike the woman’s on the box. But why would he dye his natural black hair black? Harry inspected the box closely, until his eyes fell on the words “perfect for covering gray hair.” _So that’s what it’s about_ , Harry thought. Harry himself didn’t notice any grey hair in Severus, but he knew that it was something reasonably expected at his age.     

Harry threw the package back and closed the lid shut. He probably should’ve feel flattered that Severus was taking such care of himself, but for some reason it made his heart heavy.  

…

When he passed the door to Severus’ workroom, he heard some voices. He pricked up his ears. The visitors to Severus’ workroom were few and far between, especially in the evenings. Usually these were members of St. Mungo’s staff needing Severus’ potion expertise, or his godson Draco Malfoy, whose burgeoning interest in alchemy Severus helped cultivate.

“What is bothering you, Severus?” asked a slightly nasal voice unmistakably belonging to Malfoy. Harry got a feeling that this conversation wasn’t about alchemy, though.

“I’m going to be honest with you – I can’t do this anymore,” was Snape’s tired reply. This unfortunately didn’t sound at all work-related. Something was telling Harry that he really shouldn’t eavesdrop on this conversation, which wasn’t meant for his ears to begin with, but his legs seemed to have frozen in place.

“I cannot fathom how this could have been approved by the Ethics Committee in the first place. They must’ve been aware of what this could lead to,” Severus continued.

“I don’t think you need to fear losing your job. In these circumstances, anyone would understand-” Malfoy was trying to placate Severus, but something, probably some gesture made by the older man, made him stop mid-sentence.

“You don’t understand. This is not about my job. When Potter wakes up from his delusion, he’s going to hate me again, more than ever before. And he will have every right to do so,” Severus said in a voice dripping with self-contempt.

Harry’s chest suddenly felt so constricted he could hardly breathe. This was the worst that could happen. Severus obviously thought that Harry’s love for him was just some stupid infatuation, a delusion that might end anytime. For a moment, it was so quiet that the only thing Harry heard was his own frantic heartbeat. The silence was broken by Draco Malfoy’s voice:

“Severus, have you – considered my offer?” Malfoy asked and his voice held something Harry probably never heard there before, at least not when directed to him. A complete sincerity.

“I have, to say the truth. You’d be better for him in many regards,” Severus replied softly.

Harry stepped away from the door and shut his eyelids tight to prevent tears from escaping. Then he returned to his room, quietly so as not to be overheard by the two men.

He sat down in the soft green cushioned armchair in front of the fireplace and put his head in his hands. It was time to do something he had so far avoided on instinct – to give his and Severus’ relationship some proper thinking.

When he was awoken in the early morning of the next day by the custodian of the Cokeworth Cemetery, Harry was glad that the Ministry respected Snape’s wish to be buried at this Muggle burial site. When he handed the grumpy elderly custodian a fifty-pound note, the man let him go with a reprimand and an advice to take a taxi next time he goes out drinking, so that he doesn’t end up somewhere “where no living folks have any business to be at night, got it, mate?” If it was someone from the wizarding world, there would always be a danger of Rita Skeeter finding out and making it into a news worth the Daily’s Prophet front page. Harry could totally imagine the headlines: HEAD AUROR FOUND IN COMPROMISING POSITION ON SNAPE’S GRAVE! SEE PAGE 5 FOR PICTURES OF THIS UNTHINKABLE DEBAUCHERY! Thank God for the Muggles.

Harry’s reputation thus remained thankfully intact; the same, however, could not be said about his health. The night spent at the cemetery brought him a hideous cold. As he finished probably his fifth bottle of Pepper-up potion and dove deeper under his blanket to stop shivering, he swore to himself he wouldn’t visit Snape’s grave next year. Not even sober on a sunny day.  Imagining what could have been – what good did that ever bring? No; Harry would talk about Snape’s bravery on the occasion of unveiling the fallen heroes’ monument, where Snape was, mostly at Harry’s insistence, represented by one of the five statues, despite the protests made by part of the public. Harry would deliver his speech and then let time turn Snape into a faded memory, let the wounds heal into faint old scars.

There were only two little errors in Harry’s plan, none of them being his fault. The first one was that even though several weeks had passed since the fourth anniversary of Snape’s death, the fantasy he experienced was not fading away at all; on the contrary, he kept reliving it in his dreams, which made him use a cleansing charm on his underwear and bed-sheets every other morning. Sadly enough, this fantasy felt more real than anything he had ever actually experienced with Ginny. Or with anyone else, for that matter.

During the year that followed, the dreams finally subsided. Harry threw himself into his work and managed to convince himself that love life was something that happened to other people.

And then came the day of the fifth anniversary of the Second Wizarding War, corresponding with the fifth anniversary of Snape’s death. Harry delivered a moving speech about the bravery of everyone who fought in the war, especially those who made the ultimate sacrifice.  

When Harry flicked his wand and made the veil covering the monument slide down, a collective “ooh” passed through the gathered crowd of witches and wizards. This, however, was not caused by the unquestionable magnificence of the white marble sculpture, but the second error in Harry’s plan, which was not foreseeing that a living and breathing Severus Snape would suddenly materialize next to his own statue.

 _Severus always had a flair for the dramatic_ , thought Harry, shaking his head in amusement at the memory.

He wasn’t amused, then. He felt confusion and a tentative hope he was reluctant to succumb to.

Snape took the floor from the dumbfounded Harry and briefly explained the reasons leading him to letting the British wizarding world think he actually died in the Shrieking Shack. At first, he had to recover from his injury while hiding from the surviving Death Eaters, who wanted to take revenge on him. For his refuge, he had chosen a remote magical community in Siberia, where he spent his long convalescence – it took him almost three years to just be able to speak again, because Nagini’s bite caused severe damage to his vocal chords – as an apprentice to the local shaman, who taught him a great number of healing potions, unknown in the West. When he recovered and completed his apprenticeship, he decided to share his new knowledge with his homeland.

After his unexpected speech, Snape didn’t wait for any reactions and pushed his way to the exit, not answering a single one of the questions the present journalists immediately started to shoot at him.

Snape’s explanation made perfect sense, but Harry still felt that his former teacher owed him a longer and more personal story, or even an apology – not for treating Harry the way he had at school, Harry now understood that a big part of it was a role Snape had to play – but for making Harry think that Snape was one more person Harry couldn’t save.

One week later, there was a Ministry ball held as a part of the anniversary celebrations. An invitation was hastily dispatched to Snape, and not surprisingly ignored. Harry still hoped that the ball would provide him with a chance to talk to Snape as one adult to another, because he hadn’t managed to find anything about Snape’s whereabouts after his return.   

Sometime after midnight, a rather inebriated Harry was preparing to leave the ball, when he saw a familiar figure dressed in dark robes, sipping Firewhiskey while leaning against the wall. _So he came after all,_ Harry thought victoriously and immediately started to cross the dance floor to get to Snape.

Snape seemed to guess his intention because he straightened himself and set out for the exit shortly afterwards. Harry hurried his steps. He kept bumping into the dancers while trying not to lose sight of the retreating Snape. 

“Why are you hiding from me?” he asked bluntly when he finally caught up with Snape in the corridor leading out of the building.

“Do not flatter yourself, Potter,” Snape growled. “I’m not hiding from you, but from Skeeter. I’d thought all pesky insects would be gone by now.”

“Severus?” a familiar high-pitched voice called from somewhere behind the corner. “Where have you gone to?”

Snape grabbed Harry’s sleeve and pulled him into a broom closet.

The cramped quarters of the little cupboard, in addition brim-full of various rubbish, forced them to stand very close to each other. Neither of them dared to cast _lumos_ out of fear that Skeeter could see the light escaping from the gap under the door, but there was a skylight just under the ceiling letting a beam of moonlight into the room, just enough so they could see each other’s face.  

Snape was still clutching at Harry’s sleeve. He now let go of it and looked like he wanted to step back and put some distance between them. But when he actually tried to do that, he bumped his head on a protrusion on the carved wooden wardrobe. Snape hissed in pain and automatically raised his hand to cover the hurt place.

“Let me take a look at that,“ said Harry, put his hands on Snape’s shoulders and gave him a slight push.

Snape must have hit his head pretty hard, because he went down on his knees without a single word of protest to allow Harry to have a better look at his wound. The area just above his left temple looked rather bruised, so Harry didn’t hesitate and quickly cast a simple healing spell Hermione thought him, after having used it many times on him and Ron. 

 _Now I finally have a chance to talk to him_ , Harry realized. But as his left hand was still gripping Snape’s shoulder and the right, after it had automatically returned his wand into his pocket, started to idly caress Snape’s hair, he couldn’t think of a single question to ask. The only thing that filled his mind was the contrast of a sharp collarbone he felt under the fabric of Snape’s robes and the silky hair between his fingers, and his last year’s fantasies returned with a burning intensity. 

Harry dimly thought that Snape might not like his touch, and that maybe he should stop, but Snape fortunately dispelled his doubts by pressing his face against Harry’s crotch. And no talking whatsoever ever followed that night. 

…

 _And maybe that’s the problem,_ thought Harry in the present. Because one moment of passion lead to another and then another, until these moments put together could be called a liaison, from which any conversations were notably absent. Which didn’t exactly fit with Harry’s idea of a proper relationship.

When Harry had to suddenly move in with Severus due to his accident, neither of them had probably been ready for that. They should have discussed their feelings and relationship goals long ago. Harry was starting to slowly realize that he loved Severus and wanted to spend the rest of his life with him, but didn’t have the foggiest idea about what Severus thought or felt.

The puzzle Harry started to involuntarily fit together in his head during the last few days had just clicked into a complete – and completely hopeless – picture. Severus was obviously having second thoughts. When they stopped sleeping together because of Harry’s accident – and Harry really didn’t understand why, because he didn’t have any difficulties in this area – Severus probably started to think about what else could form the basis of their relationship. And didn’t come up with anything. He could, just like Harry now, only enumerate all the differences between them.

Even if all the demons of their common past were laid to rest, not mentioning Harry’s parents and their friends, Snape was a Slytherin Potion Master and Harry a Gryffindor Auror. Snape had chosen a line of work demanding great precision and best performed in absolute quiet, while Harry barged into places yelling “Aurors here! Don’t move!” and threw combative hexes at criminals. Harry loved quidditch, while Snape preferred solitary walks and leafing through the yellowed pages of old grimoires. But that was not the most serious problem. The main obstacle seemed to lie in the fact that Snape was almost twice as old as Harry.

He remembered that people had been reluctant to accept Tonks and Remus together, despite the age difference being much less pronounced that between him and Severus. In case of two men, it was even worse. Mrs. Weasley was giving him the cold shoulder and even Ron was often struggling to hide his disgust with Harry’s choice of partner.

Harry couldn’t care less about their respective ages, but the same obviously couldn’t be said for Severus. Harry wasn’t stupid and could put two and two together. Severus was making potions with a rejuvenating effect, started to work out in a gym and dyed his hair. He must have been afraid of being too old for Harry. And judging from the conversation Harry had just heard, Severus thought that Harry would be better off with someone his own age. Someone like Draco Malfoy.   

And the reason why Severus kept refusing him lately was not Severus being overly considerate, but him trying to put some distance between himself and Harry, preparing the ground for making his looming breakup with Harry easier on himself. And he didn’t break up with Harry yet only because he was afraid what havoc would Harry’s wild magic wreak in such an emotionally charged situation. He was just waiting for Harry to regain control of his magic. 

Harry could almost hear Severus say how Harry was too good for the likes of him and therefore it would be better if he nobly let him go before Harry wakes from his “delusion” and realize this himself.

Harry’s hands balled up into fists. He was shaking with impotent rage; wasn’t this his decision as well? If he didn’t mind Severus’ past, why the hell would he be put off by something as inconsequential as age?

Harry abruptly rose from his chair. He decided to stop thinking and do what he did best. He barged into the workroom without knocking, ready to spring into action, even though he didn’t know yet what that action would entail.

It turned out that Malfoy had thankfully already left. Severus was sitting at his desk and writing something with his quill.

“Harry?” Severus said and somewhere in the back of his mind, the younger wizard was once again struck by the feeling of inappropriateness that being called by his first name by Snape still managed to rouse in him from time to time. This feeling was made even stronger by the fact that his rude intrusion upon Snape’s privacy wasn’t met with anger or at least irritation, but merited a worried expression.

“Is something amiss?” Severus asked with concern and started to rise from his chair. He never finished his movement; in the next instant, Harry was at his desk, pressing him back to sitting position.  

“Severus,” Harry said urgently and pressed his lips on the sitting man’s earlobe. “Don’t leave me, please,” he whispered.

Snape swallowed and his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. Harry lightly traced its movement with two of his fingers.

“I don’t think you should,“ Snape started hoarsely, but when Harry’s other hand glided to his fly, he found himself unable to finish that sentence.

“Your magic is…” he tried to protest again while Harry managed to free Severus’ cock from the confines of his boxer briefs. Its half-erected state belied his objections.

“Exactly, it’s my magic that’s not okay. I don’t need any magic for this,” Harry said with a roguish smile, got down on his knees and took Severus into his mouth.

For a moment, Severus was as still as a statue – _a statue of a fallen hero who didn’t die_ – flashed through Harry’s mind, while he pulled Severus to him, but when Harry traced the head of his cock with his tongue, he let out a shuddering sigh and relaxed. His hands soon found their way into Harry’s unruly hair.

…

After Harry dried his mouth with a napkin, he lifted his eyes to see Severus’ expression. And froze. Severus’ features were contorted in a tortured expression that had little to do with pleasure. His eyes were closed, probably so that he didn’t have to look at Harry.

“This was a mistake. This whole thing was a mistake,” Severus whispered in a hollow voice.

Harry didn’t run. He didn’t have the strength for it. He just turned back and exited the room, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

When he was numbly placing his hand on the knob of the door to his room, he heard someone banging on the front door. Thinking it was Malfoy returning for something he forgot, Harry went and opened it without any preamble. 

It wasn’t Malfoy.

If he didn’t feel so empty inside at that moment, the fact that it was Ginny Weasley standing behind that door would probably arouse some much stronger emotions in him than it actually did.

That said, Ginny was still probably the last person he wanted to see right now. When he remembered the way they ended their relationship – even though Harry naturally wished for them to part ways as friends, this sadly wasn’t the case. The Cokeworth Cemetery Incident, as Harry dubbed it in his mind, made him realize that his vague feeling of being attracted to men rather than to girls was accurate, and it was the last straw that broke his and Ginny’s relationship. When he finally found the courage to tell Ginny the truth, he was ready for reproaches and tears. Nothing, however, could prepare him for her actual reaction.

…

May gave way to June and, in spite of the inevitable exhaust gases, there was an enticing promise of summer in the London air, manifesting itself in the form of a smell of grilled meat wafting from some nearby garden. This mouth-watering smell penetrated even the heavy brocade drapes Harry left closed on purpose, because he felt the conversation about to unfold here would be better served by a dimly lit room.

Harry was aware that making Ginny come here, to his house at Grimmauld Place was kind of unfair, but the familiar, although not greatly beloved surroundings of the Black family residence gave him at least a little bit of courage he desperately needed for this conversation.

Ginny was wearing a slightly loose dark green dress Harry had recently praised. Now, however, wasn’t the time for compliments.

 “I need to tell you something. Something important,” he started and his heart threatened to leap out of his chest. He was watching Ginny’s face with apprehension. She appeared calm so far, creasing her forehead in an expression of worry.  

 “Harry, you know you can tell me anything,” she said, trying to sound reassuring.

 _It’s now or never._ Harry took a deep breath.

“I… I think I’m gay,” he said quietly.

“Excuse me?” Ginny gave him a look of blank incomprehension, as though she had never heard the word ‘gay’ before.

“Well, I – Ginny, I had this experience…” A very vivid image of himself masturbating on Snape’s grave played out in his mind and it took him a moment to realize that he left his sentence hanging unfinished in a very unfortunate place.

“Have you cheated on me?” Ginny asked in a betrayed voice.

“No!” blurted Harry with a much greater certainty than he actually felt, because cheating on a girl who had five brothers and someone as formidable as Molly Weasley for a mother equaled suicide.

“I’ve never cheated on you,” he repeated more calmly. “I meant, like, an inner experience. Like I realized something. I realized that I still love you very much, as my friend, as my younger sister. Maybe even as the mother I never had. But not like – I don’t desire you. But that’s not your fault, I don’t desire any girls. They just don’t do it for me.”

Ginny went quiet for a while and her face remained devoid of all expression, which was unusual for her. Finally she spoke up:

“Harry, may I ask you something? But it might be unpleasant for you, I think it’s something you don’t want to talk about.”

Her voice was very soft and gentle, as though she was speaking to a small child. Her fingers started tracing soothing circles on the back of his hand.

“Sure you can,” Harry replied without hesitation, because he couldn’t well refuse after what he had just dropped on her. Even though the things he didn’t want to talk about would fill up a whole book.

“When you lived with your uncle and aunt, your uncle… didn’t he touch you in an inappropriate manner? In a way that you didn’t like?” asked Ginny, still in that soothing voice.

Harry gave her a bitter smile.

“You should asked me if he ever touched me in any way I liked. There’s hardly a place on my body without a familiar knowledge of his belt.”

“What I meant was more whether he didn’t touch you, well… sexually,” Ginny said as carefully as if Harry was made of glass and she was afraid of breaking him with her words.

“What on earth gave you this idea?” Harry stuttered, shocked beyond measure.

“Romilda Vane may have mentioned something along the line,” Ginny said with the slightest hint of guilt.

It was now Harry’s turn to feel betrayed. He drew back his hand as though Ginny’s touch burned him.

 “You were chatting with bloody _Romilda Vane_ whether my own uncle fucked me?! I thought you hated that bitch!” Harry spat out indignantly, completely failing to censor his words.

“Harry!” Ginny yelped, clearly scandalized. For a moment there, she looked like she was about to deliver a copy of Molly Weasley’s lecture on the appropriate language to be used in front of a young lady. She succeeded in reining herself in in the end, and although it clearly cost her a lot of effort, she even managed to return to her soothing voice, which was starting to make Harry sick.

“I’m sorry, honey. Do you remember the wild celebrations after the war ended? At one of those, me and Romilda had a drink or two and made peace with each other. She even apologized to me for those chocolates.”

Harry thought it was him and especially Ron, who almost lost his life because of those chocolates, who truly deserved that apology, but chose not to say it aloud.

“Romilda also said that – that maybe that’s why you can’t have a normal relationship with a girl. That what your uncle did to you made you into a pederast. I mean gay,” Ginny corrected herself. Harry gave her an incredulous stare.

“At that time, I thought to myself that Romilda had really overdone it with the Firewhiskey, if she’s making up such nonsense. That maybe she was just jealous of me. Or trying to convince herself that you liked boys because that idea was more bearable to her than you choosing me over her.”

“That’s possible,” Harry muttered numbly, still shocked by the direction their conversation was taking.

“But lately, I’ve been finding myself remembering what she said then. Come on, Harry, we’re really living like brother and sister. I told you time and time again that we don’t have to wait until marriage. And that I wouldn’t faint if you dared to touch my breasts.”

Harry’s face turned beet red.

“But all of this could be excused by your lack of experience,” Ginny continued mercilessly, “but you look at boys, Harry. All the time. When we go to a dinner together, you ogle the waiter’s backside. Even in quidditch, you’re more interested in the male players,” she said a little wistfully, which was understandable as she played this sport professionally as a seeker. “And when Charlie came to visit us, you couldn’t keep your eyes off him. But you don’t like Ron that way, do you?” she asked with a horrified grimace.    

“Don’t worry, Ron’s like a brother to me,” Harry hurried to assure her. “But otherwise I’m really sorry but I think you’re right. I keep looking at boys because I’m gay.”

To his surprise, Ginny gave him a reassuring smile.

“Don’t worry, Harry,” she said and Harry felt tentative stirrings of hope. After all, Ginny had always been his friend first. If she supported his decision, they could revert back to being just friends.

“I talked about this to mum and she recommended me a mediwizard who’s had great results with treating pederasty,” Ginny told Harry in an unnaturally bright voice, sending his hope for a friendly breakup down the drain.  “If he succeeds in identifying the cause of the psychological damage, which is usually a childhood trauma – the experience with your uncle in your case –, then he can use magical hypnosis to…”

At that moment, the blood rushing through Harry’s ears fortunately got so loud that he didn’t hear anything that followed.

…

“Hello, Harry,” said Ginny here and now. “May I come in?”

Harry gave her an automatic nod and stepped away from the doorway, but at the very next moment felt the urge to take his invitation back, when he recalled how she considered him sick, damaged, a perverted freak just like his uncle Vernon used to call him, and speaking of uncle Vernon, Ginny thought him to – _enough_. Harry forbade himself to think about it.

“What do you want, Ginny?” he asked brusquely after he had brought her to his room.

Ginny took off her coat and sat into the armchair. Harry sat on the bed opposite to her without a single word. He didn’t feel like making it easy for her.

Ginny smoothed a crease on her checkered skirt, which ended just under her delicate knees.

“Harry, I want to apologize. I thought about it a lot and I came to the conclusion that my parents’ opinion regarding homosexuality is hopelessly outdated. Now I understand that it’s not a disease and you don’t need to be cured. I’m sorry for the way I reacted,” she said and it sounded sincere, if a little rehearsed.

“I’m sorry if I hurt you,” replied Harry, “by not finding it out sooner. It’s only now with Severus that I feel I know who I really am.”

Ginny frowned.

“You know, I’ve wanted to apologize for a long time. But that’s not why I’m here. I came because,” she took a deep breath, obviously steeling herself for saying something she thought Harry wasn’t going to like.

“Because this is wrong,” she said finally. “I don’t understand why Ron and Hermione wouldn’t do anything. They say it’s for your own good, but I just can’t believe this. Snape’s keeping you here by force so he can have you all for himself. Your accident is a mere excuse. Gay or not, if you were in your right mind, you wouldn’t touch him with a ten-foot pole.”

Ginny’s sudden 180-degree turn left him completely flabbergasted.

“What’re you talking about? We got together with Severus before my accident. We didn’t exactly advertise it, but you had to hear it from someone-“

Ginny shook her head in impatience.

“Wake up, Harry,” she said urgently. “This –“, her hand drew a circle about the room, “your life together, it’s not real. You hated Snape’s guts before that accident. _He had_ _bewitched_ _you_ , Harry. Merlin only knows what kind of black magic he had brought with himself from the East.”

One part of Harry wanted to laugh at this – Ginny apologized to him for wanting him to get his homosexuality cured, only to immediately accuse Severus of using black magic on him. But the other part of him felt tired, betrayed and above all enraged, and it was this part that was now in control of his magic.

Although they were inside of a building and the window was closed, a sudden wind rose in the room, scattering Harry’s notes all over his desk. Ginny, who didn’t seem to notice the breeze ruffling her hair, went on.

“When he couldn’t have your mother, he decided to get you instead. And because he knew you’d never agree to it, he waited for a moment when you couldn’t fight him and used some horrible curse to make you fall for him. And then altered your memory, naturally.”

“Naturally,” Harry repeated woodenly. The flames in the fireplace were dancing in the wind and the crystal chandelier over their heads started to swing back and forth.

“He claims he’s healing you, that you’re getting better, but I don’t see any improvement. Ron said that you still can’t handle not even the simplest of spells. That when you needed to clarify some details regarding your memoirs, you couldn’t even use a pensive. _A pensive_ , Harry! After eight months of his so-called treatment!”

 “Eight… months?” Harry repeated in a small voice.

Ginny bit her lip, suddenly a little hesitant.

“Ron said that I absolutely can’t tell you that. But I don’t understand why you shouldn’t learn the truth-”

Her words were lost in a deafening noise of shattering glass, as both the window and the chandelier simultaneously broke. Harry’s face was hit by a gust of ice-cold wind. The last thing he saw was snow glittering in the darkness. And then only the darkness remained.

…

When Harry opened his eyes again, his field of vision was filled with Severus’ pale face looming over him. He tried to smile at him, but found that almost all his facial muscles hurt.

“Oww,” he hissed and found out that his throat hurt as well.

“You were hit by some glass shards,” Severus answered Harry’s unsaid question and put a vial with some liquid to his lips. Harry drank it without any questions and to his relief felt the pain abate immediately, dissolving into the familiar tingling that often accompanied strong numbing potions. 

“What can you remember from yesterday’s evening, Harry?” Severus asked him carefully.

“I took a bath,” Harry said slowly. “Then I was going to bed, but I heard Malfoy…” Harry didn’t finish his sentence.

_When Potter wakes up from his delusion, he’s going to hate me. This was a mistake. This whole thing was a mistake._

Harry decided that he was fed up with this game.

“Tell me the truth – do you want to break up with me because you think you’re too old for me?” he asked bluntly.

Severus arched his eyebrows in astonishment.

“What makes you say that?” he asked Harry in a neutral tone.

“You’re dying your hair black. You’re working out like crazy. You’re making yourself a rejuvenating potion,” Harry counted on his fingers. “And you told Malfoy he’s better suited for me than you,” he added. 

Severus gave him a long stare, than rose and turned his back to Harry. He made a few steps toward the window, which was now covered with heavy curtains, so it wasn’t clear whether it was daytime or night. Harry noticed that Severus’ shoulders were shaking with slight tremors.

“Severus… are you crying?” he asked tentatively.

The Potion Master let out a choked sound.

“No, you’re laughing!” Harry accused him angrily.

Severus turned to face him again. His face hosted an expression Harry had never seen there – one of sincere amusement. Even before that Harry didn’t find Severus particularly old, but thanks to this smile he looked good ten years younger.

“You bet I’m laughing. To think that someone with deductive skills of an amoeba could have become the Head Auror! Your observation skills are excellent, but the conclusions you draw from your observations are simply ridiculous.” Severus incredulously shook his head.  

“Firstly, I don’t normally dye my hair, but an experiment gone wrong caused half of it to turn green, leaving me with no other choice. Secondly, I shall gracefully ignore the fact you eavesdropped on a private conversation and share with you that I was telling Draco he was better suited for you as a _caretaker_ , for reasons I’m going to keep to myself. Suffice to say, I definitely didn’t mean it in a romantic sense, as you mistakenly concluded. As for the “working out like crazy” – do you realize that when you have a fit of wild magic, you’re dangerous to yourself and those around you?”

Harry hung his head in shame and gave a minute nod.

“And that using magic on you often makes the situation even worse?”

Another nod.

“So when you were upset by the unannounced visit paid to you by Miss Weasley – despite being expressly forbidden to do so by me and your healers, I must add,“ Snape gritted through his teeth, “and you had your worst fit so far, during which you were rolling on the ground among shattered glass, how do you think I handled you? I naturally had to employ physical force. And it wasn’t the first time, so I try to prepare myself for these situations.”

Harry’s shame grew even deeper, but Severus wasn’t done with him.

“And finally – how in Merlin’s name did you get the idea I was making a rejuvenating potion? No, don’t tell me just yet. Such potions do exist, but when you look around you, do you think that they are widely used?”

Harry shook his head.

“Why do you reckon they’re not much popular?” Severus continued in his best teacher’s voice.

“They’re expensive?” ventured Harry.

“That too. But there is one more catch. Even very well prepared potions aiming to ensure eternal youth and beauty have certain unavoidable side effects that come with their prolonged use.”

“What kind of side effects?” Harry asked, intrigued despite himself.

“On human’s psyche. To put it simply, they make people go barking mad. You surely remember Bellatrix Lestrange, don’t you?”

“So her madness-”

“Was probably caused by such a potion. Azkaban only made it worse. So no, I would never make any potion like this, not for myself, nor for anyone else,” Severus concluded decisively.

“And what did you need the basket plant for?” asked Harry.

Severus nodded in understanding.

“Callisia fragrans. So that’s what gave you this idea. Harry, do you know what Occam’s razor is?”

“That the simplest solution is usually the right one?” Harry guessed.

“That’s a rather simplistic view, but more or less. What exactly Neville told you the basket plant is used for?”

“How did you know I asked Neville?” Harry’s eyes got round in surprise.

Severus gave him a smug smile.

“You’re not the only one around here capable of observing and drawing conclusions. Well?”

“To make a rejuvenating potion,” was Harry’s reply.

Severus arched one eyebrow.

“In these exact words?”

“Well, I guess not.” Harry frowned as he tried to remember that conversation. “He said that when mixed with magical ingredients, this plant has a rejuvenating effect and that it’s used to cure various diseases.”

“Splendid. So we have a Potion Master who works at a _hospital_ using a plant known to cure various _diseases_. What is the simplest solution in this case?”

 “That you were telling the truth when you told me it was a headache potion?” said Harry, feeling like a complete moron. 

“Almost,” Severus retorted. “What I told you wasn’t completely true, but close enough. What is my biggest project right now?” he asked Harry.

“The dragon pox vaccine,” Harry answered immediately. To Harry’s surprise, Severus shook his head.

“That’s secondary right now; my biggest project is your recovery. Fortunately, we’re almost there.”

“Really? Ginny said that I’m not getting better at all if I still can’t practice magic or even use enchanted objects,” Harry said sullenly.

“Of course, how could I forget that while the illustrious Miss Weasley flies on her broomstick, she finds the time to establish expert diagnosis, outshining the entire Medical Council of St. Mungo’s,” Severus retorted, his voice dripping with sarcasm.   

“What you were using is a potion with a cumulative delayed effect – it is taken long-term and doesn’t do anything until you’ve taken its last dose. Which I have right here,” said Severus and patted the breast pocket of his shirt, from which a cork of what was probably a small glass vial was protruding.

“When you say long-term… how long?” asked Harry, remembering that Ginny said something about eight months. But that was ridiculous, he couldn’t have possibly been here longer than a few weeks! But then he remembered the snowflakes floating in the dark behind the broken window.

“It’s no longer May, is it?” he asked with a sense of foreboding.

“No, it is not,” Severus replied with a sigh. “I’m very sorry for misleading you in this respect, but especially in the beginning you kept losing your memory every few days, and the passage of time unsettled you greatly. At last, I have resorted to creating this illusion of a cherry tree in bloom, which anchored you in time and soothed you,” he explained.

“It was a really beautiful tree,” Harry whispered.

“I agree. The most beautiful in the whole Cokeworth, not that it had much competition. We used to sit under its branches with your mother,” Severus said with a wistful smile. Then he pulled the vial out of his breast pocket.

“I think there’s no reason to wait-” he started, but Harry raised his hands in objection.  

“Please wait. You crushed my stupid deductions into dust, but you still haven’t answered my question – do you want to leave me? For any reason at all? Because if you don’t, then why…” Harry’s voice broke when he remembered Severus’ words and expression after Harry satisfied him last night.

Severus pushed the vial into Harry’s hand.

“It will be better if you drink this first,” he said softly. “Your question might become moot then.”

“I don’t understand,” Harry protested.

“Trust me on this. Drink it. Please,” Severus said and the pleading tone in his voice made Harry comply.  

…

When for the first time in eight months Harry finally regained control over his mind, memory and magic, the first thing he did was to wandlessly create a huge fireball and let it explode in the air with a satisfying boom.

“I’m sorry,” Harry told Severus who had gone a little pale. “It had to go out. Fucking Dolohov! I’m so going to kill that bastard,” he spitted out hatefully.  

“There’s no need for that,” Severus said.

“What happened?”

“Resisted his arrest,” Severus shrugged his shoulders. “You know how it goes.”

“What the hell did he even curse me with?” asked Harry after he sank back onto his bed, drained after his outburst. 

“We don’t know for sure, which is regrettable – had we known, creating the antidote wouldn’t have taken so long,” Severus retorted.

“What we know is that he somehow managed to turn your magic against you. At the same time, his curse created some kind of construct in your mind, some – distorted picture of reality. While this construct persisted, it basically prevented you from forming new memories. When we tried to destroy it, your magic revolted.”

“I don’t understand,” Harry furrowed his brow. “What kind of construct?”

Severus gave him a long look, his eyes as impenetrable as two pools of inks. And then it all sank in.   

“You never came to that Ministry ball, did you,” Harry said slowly.

Severus shook his head. “I am no fool,” he snorted.

“That means that the two of us – that we have never-” Harry’s lips began to shake.

“Never,” affirmed Severus. “Of course from the very beginning, we have tried – especially some of your friends – to persuade you there was nothing between us. But the curse or its consequences made you not only unable to accept it, but any such effort to tell you the truth made your magic literally explode, with each fit more dangerous than the previous,” Severus explained.

“For some members of the Council it was incomprehensible why Dolohov’s curse caused this particular fixed idea in you, while others perceived it as an excellent example of his sadism,” Severus said with a wry smile.

“So it was all a lie then? You don’t- you don’t love me?” Harry distantly realized that he sounded like a small child, but he didn’t find it in himself to care.

“My feelings are not important,” was Severus’ monotonous reply.

Harry blinked furiously, but it was in vain. He just couldn’t stop the tears from falling.

Severus sighed and sat down on the edge of Harry’s bed.

“Do you want to hear the truth? I’ve always loved you a little bit too much, Harry, and therein lies the problem. I fantasized about you when you were fourteen. What does that make me?”

“Someone with a really bad taste?” Harry ventured and got a surprised, if a little bitter chuckle from Snape.

“Nice try. I’m a pervert, Harry. A deviant. An old lecher, if you wish; you can choose; the polite society has a surprising amount of names reserved for someone like me.”

“Well, I came all over your grave.”

“Excuse me?” The expression of utter shock on Severus’ face made Harry smile a little.

“I’m serious. And you know what they say – that you can only be truly happy with someone who’s perverted in the same way as you.”

“This gem of wisdom has yet to come to my attention,” Severus said sarcastically.

“So you don’t feel like immediately reporting me to the Ethical Committee for abuse of medical authority?” he asked in a serious tone.

“Not really,” Harry shrugged. “But you still haven’t answered my question. Don’t you feel too old for me?”

“Of course I do. You’re a plucky youth with all his life in front of him and I’m a senile old codger with one leg already in the grave,” Severus said only half-jokingly.  

Through quickly drying tears, Harry gave him a bright smile.

“Well, you’re lucky then that I’m a gerontophile,” he said and leaned for a kiss. 

 

 

THE END

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from the Czech poem of the same name by Czech impressionistic poet Antonín Sova (1864-1928), the Enligsh translation of which by Václav Z.J. Pinkava could be found here: http://www.vzjp.cz/basne.htm. I originally wanted to include some lines from this gorgeous poem as well, but though its theme is the elderly poet's love for a young girl, its mood didn't really fit the story, so I settled with just the title.


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